


i have buried you,

by bloodflood



Category: Wynonna Earp (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Comfort, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, calamity jane doesn't really like him, everybody is sad but they're trying their hardest, nicole somehow ends up with a dog, waverly is sunshine walking on a cloud
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2019-05-25 22:40:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14987135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodflood/pseuds/bloodflood
Summary: "Something dark and raw rips at her then, pools in the bottom of her stomach like a sickness, like the rattle of bronchitis. Dark and twisted and inflamed. Nicole has only ever been just that. A warning sign of death, of bad omens and seas that never cease. She is alone, alone, alone in this world and that is how it will forever be."orA girl, broken and lost, being healed by a family who has known nothing but tragedy.





	1. you keep ending up in my shaking hands,

**Author's Note:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> sorry !

_ “You think I can’t tame that? I always come home. Always. _

_ Ravenous. Loaded. You know better than anybody: _

_ I’m bigger than God. ” –Jeanann Verlee, from “The Mania Speaks" _

* * *

Sometimes she looks at the glint of her gun and shakes, remembers a time when blood coated her hands, dripped, dripped, dripped off of her face. And sometimes her shoulders quiver when she clips her gun to her belt, buttons up her shirt. She doesn’t look at herself in the mirror, can’t. 

 

When these times happened, she’d down a bottle of alcohol, find herself curled up into a corner of her living room the next morning, sun sticking in her eyes. Her hair matted against her forehead. 

 

She’d push herself off of the floor. Smile. Prepare for war. 

 

… 

 

One, two, three… One, two, three. One… One… One… 

 

Nicole sits at her desk, unfocused. Can barely feel her fingers, can barely feel her lungs working overtime. Nedley is talking to her - she can hear the faint mumble of his deep voice, the fatherly touch of his hand on her shoulder. 

 

She feels herself nod, grab a folder from his hands, stand. Methodically, her feet take her a direction she knows so well. Left, right, right again. Opens a heavy door, hears the whine of the worn hinges under her fingers. 

 

Heads snap towards her, and she vaguely remembers Dolls, teeth bared, screaming at her to knock.  _ She did. _ Her mouth moves in a garble, arms stretched out. Like a parody of herself. 

 

Eyes are on her then, warm and wary and it’s all too much. “Are you drunk, Haught?” 

 

She ignores these words, despite the thudding against her chest. Her jaw stiffens and through clenched teeth a baited breath escapes. “Nedley wants you to look at these,” and she throws them on a desk nearby, her head screaming to go, go, go, go, go. 

 

(get out, get out, get out, get out.) Blood is dripping off of her hands and she slams the door shut behind her. Can’t face whatever lies in the depths of their eyes. Can’t face the red tinge of her own eyes. 

 

… 

 

She sews herself into her bed thrice times, never learns to get out. A bottle is what she curls up next to at night, trying to seek warmth and finding none. 

 

She is alone, alone, alone in this world and that is how it will forever be. 

 

She feels the scars on the side of her ribs, aches when one of them is still raw to touch. Nicole digs a finger in there, deep, deep. Searching for something. Blood spills out, as expected. She fingers sinewy muscle and torn skin and gives up, takes a swig, feels the fire deep in her stomach. It burns her inside out. 

 

She is alone, alone, alone in this world and that is what she deserves. 

 

… 

 

Nicole knows Purgatory. Knows it like the black darkness that she sees every time she closes her eyes. Knows it like the veins in her arms. Though she hasn’t lived here for very long, the air smells like home to her. Home mixed with rot and dust, but home all the same. 

 

She sits on the bed of her truck. It hasn’t been driven in a while - dust collects on the surface of the hood and she can still smell the blood. Maybe she’ll drive it this weekend. 

 

She knows she won’t. 

 

Her neighbor passes her on the street, smiles and waves. She can’t bring herself to wave back, but she does smile. It’s the least she can do. He’s nice to her, always offers to get lunch with her, to check up on her cat when she’s gone too long on a particular shift, offers to hang out with her when the bags under her eyes get too dark, too heavy. 

 

She always declines. 

 

_ Smile. Prepare for war.  _ It’s what she’s good at. Nobody knows what lies beyond the pleated khakis and sharp lined shirt. Instead they know white smile and dimpled Nicole Haught, deputy of Purgatory’s Sheriff’s department. Outstanding citizen and officer. A friend to all in Purgatory. 

 

Something dark and raw rips at her then, pools in the bottom of her stomach like a sickness, like the rattle of bronchitis. Dark and twisted and inflamed. Nicole has only ever been just that. A warning sign of death, of bad omens and seas that never cease. 

 

She goes inside, swallowing blood and bile, feeling the sting to her legs and relishing in the new bullet wound she holds in the back of her shoulder. 

 

… 

 

They get a call. A dangerous one. 

 

The call rings throughout the department, everybody listens in closely, momentarily pausing in their previous tasks. In Purgatory, it wasn’t uncommon to get calls from old people who were griping about somebody lingering in their store for too long, or the occasional call from Shorty’s where they needed to bring somebody in for causing a fuss. 

 

But sometimes, sometimes they get calls that chills the blood in their veins. 

 

This was one of those times. 

 

_ “Help!”  _  comes the scream from the receiver. Heads snap up to the gun shots in the background, to the growling, to the sounds of death.  _ “Help us, please!” _

 

Nicole doesn’t wait, doesn’t hesitate to grab her gun. She’s out the door, sprinting to her car, throwing the car into drive, barely waiting for Nedley to get in. 

 

“Go!” He shouts, fear coloring his eyes anew, voice raw and hoarse.  “Go! Fucking go!” But she was already driving as he screams, flipping the sirens on. The dispatcher directs them, cool voice, soft and even and Nicole wonders how the dispatcher is so good at her job.  

 

Every light turns green for them, cars pulled to the side, eyes following. 

 

Nicole’s foot touches the ground, car at its maxed out speed and it still doesn’t feel fast enough. Distantly, she can make out the sounds of sirens, the red and blue and white of an ambulance. 

 

She can’t breathe, can’t breathe, can’t breathe - 

 

. . .

 

There’s nothing left when they arrive. 

 

Nicole looks, wide eyed at the blood splatter. On the walls, soaked into the carpet, staining the glass. 

 

The Burtons. Nicole knew them well. Their daughter was only seven and last year she danced at a gala to raise money for charity. 

 

Now her body lies broken in the corner of the living room, eyes open and vacant and so beautifully green and so 

 

so dead. 

 

Never to laugh again and never to cry again and her mother is in the opposite corner. Arm torn off, stomach torn open. 

 

She bites back a gag, swallows the bile that threatens to come up. But she lets the tears come, lets them fall off of her face and onto the floor. 

 

Behind her, she can hear an officer run back outside, the guttural sounds of vomiting reach her ears. 

 

The mother’s name was Jane. She was dark haired and beautiful and so bright. 

 

“Where’s Greg?” Nicole forces her mouth to move when Nedley comes up behind her. The husband was missing. She knew him, too

 

She knew him in the way that he went with his daughter to sell Girl Scout cookies. She knew him in the way that he was one of the best doctors in Purgatory. She knew him from his kind smiles and cold hands and how he told her she was one of the best cops he’d ever known.  

 

“There’s a blood trail out the back door. It’s being investigated now.” His voice is hollow. She expects it to be, he knew these people better than she did. He was on call when the little girl was born, there when they adopted their first dog… 

 

“Where’s the dog?” Nicole’s brows crease as she turns around, starts to move. “They had a dog named -” 

 

“Diesel.” Nedley nods, pivoting around. “I haven’t-” 

 

A whimpering comes from the hallway and Nicole follows it, sidestepping the blood as best she could. At the end of the hall is a room, dark and everything about it tells Nicole to be ready. 

 

She draws her firearm, enters cautiously, flicking on the lights fast. 

 

On the floor lies a dog, a German Shepherd and he is bleeding from his stomach, one leg broken in a way that makes her bite her tongue. 

 

She puts her gun away, crouches down and approaches him, sushes when he growls out of fear. “It’s okay, it’s okay.” 

 

There’s darkness clouding his eyes and blood is foaming around his mouth, but something makes her call out for help, something makes her gently place the dog’s head on her lap, stroke his matted fur. “You’re going to be okay. It’s going to be okay.” 

 

Paramedics meet her in the room, expecting to find a human but coming upon a dog instead. 

 

“Please.  _ Please. _ ” She’s begging, voice raw and broken and she doesn’t even try to hide her tears or her clenched jaw.  _ “Please.” _

 

They get the stretcher as close as they could to him. The dog whines in fear, baring teeth and crying. Nicole hurries to hush him, to comfort him, rubbing his cheeks and ears. “They’re going to help you. It’ll be okay.” 

 

“One, two, three.” They heave on three and gently place the dog on the stretcher. The paramedics transport him out. The whimpering fades after a while. 

 

Nicole sits in a pool of blood now, hands slick with it, pants soaked with the redness of it all. 

 

“Fuck.” She spits out, chest heaving.  _ “Fuck!” _

 

. . . 

 

Left, right, right again. 

 

She doesn’t knock this time. 

 

Gasps meet her when she opens the door. She doesn’t look, can’t look. Knows she’s covered in blood, knows her entire existence is slick with the stuff. 

 

“Report.” She says. Or thinks she does. She throws in on the desk, watches a smear of red appear after it. 

 

“Why weren’t we notified about the call, Officer Haught?” And he’s angry. Of course he is. Dolls doesn’t have any emotion other than the red hot anger he’s so very good at expressing. 

 

But blood is painted on her skin, she’d seen death in its worst form and she - and she just - 

 

_ “Why weren’t you paying a-fucking-tention?” _ Her voice thunders in a way that makes the foundation shake, that makes everybody in the room jump. Her teeth are sharper than she means them to be when she screams, sharper than she’s ever known them to be. Fire burns red and hot in her lungs and she wants everything and anything hurt the way she is hurting now. 

 

Dolls twitches toward his belt. And she glares at him with such contempt, with such hatred and such anger that she doesn’t regret her next words when they shoot out of her bared teeth. “A family died tonight and all you can care about is the fact that you weren’t fucking included.” 

 

Wynonna flinches at the accusation. And it isn’t fair to her - it wasn’t directed towards her but she sees blue eyes flood with guilt, sees the strong clench of her jaw and an apology is on the tip of Nicole’s tongue, but she means what she’s saying. 

 

She doesn’t even  _ dare _ glance at the other sister in the room. 

 

“Excuse me, Deputy Marshal,” she spits blood and rot and the life of the little girl and the dead eyes of Jane. “I have to go wash the blood out of my clothes.” 

 

The door slamming still jarrs her ears hours later. 

 

. . .

 

The blood doesn’t ever come off of her hands. 

 

… 

 

She gets a call from Purgatory’s only veterinary office. 

 

“Office Haught.” 

 

“Yes,” a voice muffled, tired. “We have your name on file for a German Shepherd named Diesel. He just came out of surgery.” 

 

“Uh…” Nicole stutters, eyeing her cat watching her from the couch. Almost as if she knows she’s not going to be happy with what is about to walk in their lives. “I’m on my way.” 

 

… 

 

Diesel is heavily sedated and in a crate when Nicole walks in the vet office. He looks better, cleaner with his cast on. 

 

The absence of blood means that she spots a white triangle in the middle of his chest. 

 

A doctor comes up to her, reaching for her hand. “Dr. McCarthy.” She greets, and her hands are warm and soft and too fragile to be a doctor. 

 

“He’s tough.” She gestures towards Diesel. “We almost lost him several times during surgery. But he pulled through.” 

 

Nicole nods as she hears words like “broken leg” and “stomach appeared to have been torn open” and “don’t let him lick his stitches” as she watches Diesel’s chest move softly, tongue lolling out of his mouth. 

 

“Thank you Doctor.” She adds in at appropriate times, nods when necessary. “One question.”

 

“Shoot.” 

 

“Any tips on introducing a dog and a cat to each other?” 

 

… 

 

As expected, Calamity Jane doesn’t take kindly to the big dog in her home. 

 

“Hey!” Nicole admonishes when she sees her cat go to swat at the bars on Diesel’s kennel for the third time. “Stop, he’s not even doing anything to you!” 

 

Thankfully, Diesel is still knocked out, deep and steady breathing and pink tongue on the floor of his kennel. 

 

“He’s really hurt, Calamity. You need to be nice to him.” A disgruntled meow is her response, the equivalent of a “whatever.” 

 

The floor near her fridge sports a new bowl, dark blue in its color. _ “Puppy” _ is scrawled on the back in loose lettering. 

 

Calamity Jane hisses once again and Nicole rakes her hands through her hair, pulling hard enough to bring tears to her eyes. 

 

True exhaustion is cotton balls behind her eyes, lead in her bones and mercury in her veins. Her hands shake and she bends to pet Calamity, as she caresses Diesel’s cheek. 

 

She doesn’t remember falling asleep on the couch, doesn’t even remember sitting down. But it’s four in the morning and she is  _ so _ tired. 

 

She is always so tired. 

 

… 

 

She’s in the local pet shop the next day in between shifts, standing clueless in the collar section. 

 

Diesel’s collar still had blood stains on it. 

 

“Hey,” a voice calls, startling her from her thoughts. “You finding everything okay?” 

 

“Uh,” Nicole reached up to rub the back of her neck. “Well, I’m trying to pick a collar for my new dog. I’m a little lost - I’ve only ever owned a cat.” 

 

“Jim” is the name that reads on his name tag. And he has a smile to fit the name. 

 

“Well, what kind of dog?” 

 

“A German Shepherd.” 

 

“Ah,” he smiles again. “A pretty dog for a pretty cop.” 

 

_ Ugh _ . Nicole has to bite back the grimace from her face. A “ha.” Is the only thing that comes out of her mouth. 

 

“He’d be a large collar size then,” he directs her attention to her left. “All of those are actually on sale right now.” 

 

“Awesome. Thank you so much, Jim.” She smiles at him, dimples and all. It’s the least she could do. 

 

She picks a blue one with red. Picks up a leash, too. 

 

She’ll have to give Sheriff Nedley a call to see if he has any helpful tips for her.

 

… 

 

Diesel is scared of thunder she finds out, days later when she comes home, soaked, cold, and irritated. 

 

Calamity Jane sits with contempt on the window sill, glaring in the direction of the coffee table. Underneath lay an eighty-pound dog, shivering and whimpering to himself, paw up and over his face. 

 

“Oh, baby boy.” Nicole calls, getting on her knees and reaching for Diesel. “It’s okay, buddy. I’m home.” 

 

He yelps when her hand touches his back, jumps when another  _ boom _ hits, smacking his head against the top of the table. Diesel hurries into her hands, curls under the blanket she offers as asylum. 

 

She falls asleep like that, Calamity on her lap, hand buried in dark fur. 

 

In the morning, sun shines through the clouds. 

 

…

 

She gets shot. She gets shot and of course it’s all her fault, but it doesn’t hurt any less. 

 

It had been a simple call, maybe, not really. 

 

She was on patrol when she got a call about a disturbance in a local hardware shop. 

 

Nothing unusual. The residents of this town did enjoy being a ruckus from time to time, to make up for the complete and utter stale taste of Purgatory. Nicole understands, knows what it feels like to be stagnant. Knows how hard it can be to sit in her own skin for too long. 

 

She had walked in, hand on her belt, confidence in her gait. The owner had pointed towards the offender, a mild face of irritation. 

 

“Get him  _ out. _ ” Ms. James points, words like venom out of her mouth. “He’s been here for an hour, standing in that corner.” 

 

Nicole looks. He’s tall, lanky. But dangerous in his disposition, spine curved with the intent of malice. He toys with something on his other side, smile perked up, revealing a particular shade of rot to his teeth. 

 

Nicole’s hand twitches towards her gun. 

 

“Hey.” She calls, eyes trained on his hand. “Come on, bud. Let me take you somewhere else.” She’s the good cop, nice and friendly until she can’t be anymore. 

 

She stops approaching him when he whips around, eyes ablaze with the color of blood, and burning at his temple. 

 

“Don’t worry about it, Officer Haught. I’m on my way out.” His voice a melody of every terrible thing that’s happened in the world. 

 

Gun shots. Once, twice, thrice. Pain, hot, and searing, and she can’t breathe, she can’t breathe. 

 

Darkness is her friend then, holding her hand, coaxing her along. 

 

She awakes to fire and ice but she’s never been anything different. 

 

The ceiling fan whirs above her, hypnotizing in its rhythm. 

 

Something scratchy is at her wrist. She glances over, biting against the pain in her neck. 

 

Nedley is in his chair. Head tilted back, mouth open. His foot is propped up on her bed and she has to bite back tears, has to bite down to stop from crying. 

 

Sheriff Nedley is here with her, asleep and solid, here and warm. More of a father than she’s ever known. 

 

More of a father than she deserves. 

 

… 

 

She goes home. She goes home and it feels like she’s stepping into a lie, a murder scene. 

 

Diesel and Calamity are there, soft and warm, sleepy. 

 

It’s three in the morning when she gets home, stomach and shoulder aching with the burns and bullets of yesterday. 

 

She goes home. She goes home and it feels like the light slanting through her window won’t ever be the same anymore, feels like the creak under her feet aren’t the same. 

 

But, as she looks over at a mass of fur on the ground, a soft snoring from him, curled around a ball of orange. It feels like home. 

 


	2. shake the memory free,

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Nicole has to babysit Wynonna.

_“Crack me open and a sunset pours out I loved you enough to break the sky.” - Elizabeth Mcnamara_

* * *

 

 

Spending time with Wynonna makes her want to rip all of her teeth out with barbed wire, makes her want to put a cigarette out against her tongue. Nicole would rather take death, being shot a thousand times over, than have to babysit Wynonna Earp ever again. 

 

“So…” Wynonna drawls thickly, thumbing a pattern on a desk that distracts Nicole from her paperwork. “Is this all you guys do around here?” 

 

Nicole  _ really  _ wishes that whoever shot her had succeeded. 

 

“Yeah,” cold, bitter, and dark comes out of her mouth before she could stop it. “Something simple so us local  _ flatfoots _ can understand.” Her words drip with venom and she means them to hurt, to find their mark. 

 

And they do. There’s a subtle flinch to Wynonna’s face that makes Nicole dig her fingers into her thigh. Wynonna looks like she’s going to apologize for a split second, then shakes her head. 

 

Of course not, apologizing isn’t something the great-granddaughter of Wyatt Earp would do. 

 

Nicole groans, rubs her eyes, it’s only ten, but she’s been on this shift for twelve hours. Somehow the short hour she’s spent with Wynonna is more arduous than a twenty-four hour shift would be. 

 

Silence accompanies them for a while, rubbing its hands into Nicole’s back soothingly. 

 

Wynonna takes a bat and suplexes silence to a realm far away from where Nicole is. 

 

“I’m bored.” 

 

Nicole’s head hits the desk with a  _ thud, _ thankful for the pain.

 

“Wow, and they call  _ me _ the dramatic one.” 

 

A baited breath falls out of Nicole’s mouth, eyes rolling with irritation, a never ending headache greeting her again. 

 

Dolls had come in earlier today, trying to make eye contact but not fully doing so. He explained that he was going away for a  _ while _ , asked if she could keep an eye on Wynonna, make sure that she didn’t go and get drunk, get hurt, hurt something. 

 

He hadn’t given her time to respond before he said,  _ “Thank you, Officer.” _

 

She  _ really, truthfully, _ wished that whoever shot her had killed her. 

 

“Do you have any new cases?” Wynonna continues, eyeing the bourbon in Nedley’s office. 

 

“Wynonna.” Irritation builds in her stomach before she can stop it. “Why don’t you go figure out who shot me?” 

 

“Already did.” Wynonna waves the question away, sliding off of the desk with a small comment of “he wouldn’t mind, would he?” Referencing Nedley and makes way towards his office. 

 

“What?” Nicole swivels around in her chair. “What do you mean?” 

 

“Already did.” She repeats, mouthful of alcohol, sighs in relief. Her voice is darker though, and her eyes shift towards her gun ever so slightly and Nicole’s blood runs to subzero, jaw clenching, fist shaking. 

 

“Well. I guess that means I can’t question him.” 

 

“No. Sorry.” 

 

“Are you?” This is mean, too. Not something that she means, not something she wanted to flash her fangs at. What she means is  _ thank you, I’ve been having nightmares about it. Thank you. _

 

Wynonna doesn’t burn from her flame, alcohol already have numbed her. She shrugs, artfully moving onto a new conversation. Comes up behind her, thumbing over a photograph. 

 

Nicole doesn’t look, can’t - 

 

“How long have you lived here for?” 

 

“Not very.” Nicole shakes her head. “A few months.” 

 

“And,” Wynonna picks up the picture. “Who is this?” 

 

Wynonna isn’t stupid, Nicole knows this. Knows Wynonna can see the bright red hair, dimpled smile, calm eyes. 

 

“Mother.” Bites out in pieces, hurts, hurts, hurts. “I loved her. I lost her.” 

 

There’s a stillness to Wynonna then, voice softer than she’s heard it before. Touch a whisper across her shoulders. “Me too.” She takes another long swig, holds it in her mouth, lets it burn. “Me too.” 

 

Nicole can feel the years and years of pain, of blood and rot and death ooze from Wynonna. Knows she’s thinking about her sister and knows she’s thinking about the blood of her father when she sits down, blue eyes downcast, brows furrowed. 

 

The silence comes back, but not with comforting arms. Instead, it grabs Nicole and holds its hand over her mouth, tight, tight, tight, until she can’t breathe. 

 

Blood drips, drips, drips from her hands,  weight of her gun on her belt making her sick.

 

Nicole is scared that it’ll never stop bleeding.

 

… 

 

It never does. 

 

...

 

Looking at Waverly Earp was like staring into the sun, too bright to look at, out of reach, too  _ hot _ to touch. 

 

She comes into the station, and she’s wearing jeans that are so tight, and she’s wearing a shirt that shows off her midriff, and she’s - 

 

“Hey guys!” Waverly greets, beautiful smile, wide and happy. Something in Nicole’s chest flutters, creatures more cruel than a butterfly taking residence in the soft lining of her stomach. “I brought lunch for my sister and -” she turns around, making eye contact with Nicole, voice dropping softer. “Purgatory’s finest.” 

 

Waverly Earp smiles like home then, smiles like the sun beating down on her shoulders after a long storm, smiles like everything is ok, like her entire existence doesn’t have the foundation of death. 

 

But she holds her shoulders in a way that shows Nicole that she shouldn’t be as nice as she is, shows Nicole that a darkness lies in between Waverly’s ligaments, in between the bones of her hands. 

 

She pays close attention to the stiffness of the younger sister’s back. 

 

“Oh, god!” Wynonna grabs for a lunch box. “You’re a lifesaver. Officer Haught-ass refused to let me eat until she was done with her paperwork.” 

 

Rolling her eyes at the name, she responds. “Wynonna, it ain’t even noon yet.” Waverly places the other box on her desk. 

 

“I hope you like it.” She rambles on. “I didn’t know what you liked so I made you a salad and-” 

 

“Waverly.” Nicole interrupts, her name rolling off of her tongue like velvet, soft and smooth, like honey. “Thank you, it’s very kind of you.” 

 

A smile brighter than all the suns and moons beam at her response, a nod. “You’re welcome. I figured that it’s the least I could do after making you watch my sister.” 

 

“I have been a dream!” 

 

Nicole opens her mouth to respond, chest tight with something she can’t quite place. Waverly whips around, engaging in loving banter and all Nicole can do is just watch. Watch the way that sun bounces off of her hair, bringing out the hint of red. Watch the way her chest heaves when she laughs, watch the way her shirt rides up  _ ever so slightly _ when she crosses her arms. 

 

Watching Waverly is like watching the stars, like watching the sunrise, beautiful and constant, steady and  _ there. _ And she is there, hip placed on the edge of Nicole’s desk, fingers ghosting over the corner. 

 

Dolls comes in then, breaking the concentration of Nicole. He thunders in, jaw tight and eyes tighter, looking like he had seen the death of the world a thousand times over. 

 

Nicole knows he probably has. 

 

The Earp girls stop, suddenly. Temperature of the room switches to freezing as he makes eye contact with Wynonna. Without a word, she follows him. Left, right, right again. 

 

“Oh,” Waverly turns, a jaw carved from the archangels clenched. “I guess that’s my cue to go.” 

 

_ No, don’t. _ Nicole wants to say, but instead she comments. “Well, he doesn’t look too happy.” 

 

“No,” Waverly agrees, smiles like Aphrodite  _ would _ . “No. But when does he ever?” 

 

She’s gone with a smile and a wave. 

 

And Nicole is alone, alone, alone again. That is how it will forever be. 

 

. . .

 

Diesel gets better. Nicole knows this because she comes home to find him curled between her pillows, making sure to get all of his hair in between her covers. 

 

“Ugh, buddy.” Calamity sides with her on this, meowing in an angry tone. It’s clear that she won’t be sleeping on Nicole’s bed anytime soon. Diesel responds in kind, grunting as he rolls on his back, staring at Nicole upside down, tongue hanging out of his mouth. 

 

Owning a dog is decidedly not like owning a cat. 

 

She picks up his leash, and he already knows what it means, bounding up and down the stairs, tail slamming so painfully against the walls. 

 

“Okay, okay! Diesel let’s load up!” Nicole sing-songs, smiling as Diesel spins around in circles. “Keep the place locked down, Calamity.” Pets her, then ushers Diesel outside. 

 

Her truck is a little too dusty and it takes a little too long to get the engine to turn over. She can’t recall the last time she drove this thing, really. 

 

Diesel barks happily at the dust, and something loosens its grip on Nicole’s chest. 

 

… 

 

Fear grips her throat tight as they enter the dog park, eyes wary on the back of Diesel’s neck, searching for signs of bristled hair. Finding none offers her little solace when three dogs bigger than Diesel snap their neck in his direction. 

 

It hadn’t really occurred to her that probably taking a dog, who still has stitches in his stomach, to the dog park with other potentially aggressive dogs wasn’t the best idea she’s ever had. Really, she didn’t even know how Diesel handled himself around other dogs. 

 

The dogs bound over, Nicole’s grip tightens on the leash and Diesel takes it as a sign to sit down, tail still wagging. 

 

They smell at his ears, at his mouth, at his stomach. It’s the last action that has Nicole shaking. It wouldn’t be hard for one of these dogs to just  _ bite _ down, and  _ hard _ . 

 

She’d be losing him all over again. 

 

None of these things happen, of course. But it’s another thirty minutes or so before she feels safe enough to take off the leash. The moment he does, his nose goes to the ground, searching for  _ something _ . He comes back with a tattered and torn ball in his mouth not long after. 

 

“Oh no, buddy.” Nicole bends down, smooths behind his ears. “I’m so sorry, but you have to be gentle right now. No fetch.” Dropping the ball and laying down, he looks up at her, a low whine coming from him. 

 

She feels stupid watching all of these experienced dog owners throw balls, watching their dogs tumble in the dirt with another. She feels so stupid and tears start to prickle at her eyes when she recalls the image of him bleeding and torn, almost dead and -

 

Diesel tears off, barking, runner faster than she’s ever seen, running faster than he should. 

 

“Fuck! Diesel, no!” Nicole starts to run after him, hands shaking in the worst of ways, but he stops in front of a little girl, probably about seven, rolling onto his back, dark hair and green eyes. It ruins her with red,

 

“I’m so, so sorry,” Nicole grabs Diesel by the collar, voice warbling. Hurts, hurts, oh god, it hurts so bad, so bad- “I’m so sorry. I think he mistook you guys for somebody else.”

 

“It’s not a problem, really.” The mother reaches out to pet Diesel’s cheek and he leans into the touch. 

 

Nicole nods, eyes dangerously threatening to spill over. She takes Diesel by the collar, out the gate, and helps him up into the truck. 

 

…

 

That night she dreams of hellfire eyes and pain through her abdomen.  _ “Officer Haught” _ is sneered into her ear, fingers around her throat.  _ “This is all you were made for. Pain.”  _

 

And then he makes her believe it. 

 

She awakes to a scorching sun and an even hotter bottle of whiskey. 

 

… 

  
  


Dolls sprints out of the station again, tossing Nicole a " _ please" _  look. 

 

It doesn’t matter though. Wynonna comes down the hall with a trademark bottle of alcohol. 

 

“Sorry, Haught. I’m stuck with you again today.” 

 

Nicole opens her mouth, eyebrows tight with protest, a retort already making its way out of her mouth. 

 

But then Waverly, Waverly with her smiles brighter than any star, smooth skin, doe eyes immediately finding her own, trails after Wynonna, a soft “Hello.” on her mouth. 

 

It’s enough to cool Nicole’s fire. “Hey.” And this is soft, too, soft enough to unclench her fingers from her side. “Where’s he running off to now?” 

 

“Don’t know.” This is anger coming from Wynonna, so hot that Nicole feels like she has to squint her eyes to look at her. “He’s been getting a lot of calls lately, then he goes running off for hours and hours.” She takes a swig, doesn’t flinch as it goes down. “Whatever.” 

 

“Well,” the redhead shrugs, pushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Really, it’s going to be another boring day.” 

 

“Honestly could do with some of that right now.” Wynonna smacks her head against the now half-empty bottle. 

 

At Nicole’s raised brow, Waverly hurries to respond. “We had a … rough day yesterday.” Wynonna tilts the bottle again. 

 

“Where’s Doc? Surely he’s not preoccupied with anything important.” Nicole asks, suddenly self-conscious and worried about being “boring.” 

 

Waverly laughs, scratching at her cheek, making Nicole’s fingers itch and tingle. “Learning how to drive, I would guess.” 

 

Confusion is the new flavor on her tongue, but she doesn’t question. Has learned not to when it came to the Earps. 

 

“Still,” Wynonna slurs. “You got any new cases?” 

 

“No new ones.” Nicole shakes her head, feeling two pairs of eyes on her back, trying to keep her fingers steady. “Just the usual misdemeanors and drunken teenagers.” 

 

A hand comes at her shoulders then, Nicole choking on her own tongue. From the warmth, she can tell it’s Waverly before she even turns around. She does anyway. 

 

Waverly smiles, slow and soft. It’s enough to steal all the air out of Nicole’s lungs, to still the blood in her veins. The brunette holds up a dark piece of hair that she recognizes as Diesel’s. “Sorry, you had dog hair on you.” 

 

“T-Thanks.” Nicole bites against the stutter, cheeks painted the color of roses. Nicole watches as Waverly’s eyes widen, and then soften, and then if at all possible, her smile grows. She had noticed the stutter, had noticed the blush.

 

Wynonna’s decidedly  _ not _ gentle voice breaks their contact, Waverly’s hand dropping from her shoulder. “You have a dog, Haught? Figured you for a cat person.” 

 

Nicole nods. “Oh, I am. Um, but-” she winces, tries to keep her mind still. “Well, remember the Burtons?” 

 

They both nod, smiles and warmth gone. 

 

“They had a dog. We found him in the back room. He was in really bad condition so I decided to take him in.” Nicole shrugs. “My cat doesn’t like him too much, or at least that’s what she wants me to think.” She had seen Calamity Jane curled up near Diesel plenty of times, had seen her mysteriously end up in the same room as him, licking his ears clean. 

 

“Wow.” Waverly’s smile is back again, a little sad, a little pained. “That’s very sweet of you.” 

 

“No.” She shakes her head. “I was doing what’s right.” 

 

… 

Later, when Dolls comes back, bloody and bruised, when Wynonna rushes to his side, Waverly smiles at her and touches her shoulder, near her collar. Whispers “Bye.” 

 

And Nicole becomes a byproduct of the sun, hot and red, but- 

 

Alive. 

 

… 

Breathing comes easier. She’s not left gasping when she wakes up a week after, doesn’t reach for the neck of a bottle. Instead, her fingers find purchase in Calamity’s soft fur when she wakes to find her sitting on Nicole’s chest. Breathing comes easier, and so does sleep. 

 

(Almost, almost, almost.) 

 

(Night terrors still stroke her hair when she sleeps, still kiss her mouth when she dreams. They are still there, always, always, always.) 

 


End file.
